Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 67

Farren's nails dug into the desk before her, shoulders bunching beneath the shocked gazes of her friends. In his gilded chair, Royal Sorcerer Marches sipped wine from an etched goblet, a deep furrow between his pale brows.

"So your powers..." Rendarr trailed off.

"All because of the deal. I'm a resistant because deal made me so," said Farren, eyes lowered. "Every strike I make, it delivers the force of two. Me and the...soul." Dresius Silverhaart, she wished to say, yet stopped herself.

Xenro had chosen not to reveal his true identity and to remain as an ordinary mercenary among the company. She'd seen the proud glint in his eyes when he'd marched with them, how genuinely happy he was to simply...belong.

Be there a war on the horizon, be there enemies beyond the walls and enemies within, the God was at peace after a life of turmoil, after centuries of imprisonment.

Letting the world know that she, by ways of the most notorious of deities, had her soul fused with the mortal lover of the Nameless One was a good way to destroy that peace and possibly anger the entire horde of Captain Walric's battlemages.

In the end, some stories weren't hers to tell.

"I'm sorry," she now told them all, before they could bludgeon her with some well-deserved words. Farren was prepared for the harshest of punishments.

"What are you sorry for?" snapped Rendarr, a sound alien to her ears.

"One could write a book on that," said Farren with a nervous grin. "But to answer your question: my burdensome existence in general."

She laughed, trying to diffuse the wall of tension in her own way. Rendarr did not return the smile. None of them did, which was rather dull.

Clearly, no one had a sense of humor.

"It's things like this that make me want to punch you in the face, you know that?" Rendarr said, his expression dark. "Not everything is a joke."

"By the Gods, do it. Smack some sense into this reckless maniac." Gray slapped a hand to his forehead.

This was exactly what she'd been dreading when Marches urged her to tell the truth. All the things she'd kept neatly tucked away in a corner of her mind and pretended they didn't exist, now she was forced to look them in the eye.

Lying was always easier. All this confrontation was doing her no good. The Royal Sorcerer was panicking royally beneath his calm composure--already having downed an entire bottle of wine--still on about the deal and its withdrawal, while others were either fuming, and as for Linder and Klo, frozen into an eerie silence Farren did not like the looks of.

"An immortal soul in a mortal body. You are a Vasaen by definition," said Linder, dark eyes boring into hers. He then looked away with a sigh. "No wonder you ran off so abruptly the night I brought the book."

Farren wished she was someplace else. She wished time would flow faster, so this conversation could be over with. Yet the clocks ticked ever so slowly. This hurt, like pulling apart bandages that stuck to an oozing wound. "Sorry," she said again, just so they would stop glaring.

"You better be!" Karles got to his feet, hands curled into fists. "Why didn't you ever tell me your training went this badly? Seven years, Farren. Seven years since you, Rendarr and Klo came to the camp, and I've--I've--looked out for all of you. Haven't I?"

He had. He cared for them like his siblings.

Yet what could the archer really do for a good-for-nothing recruit lagging behind in training? Everyone had given up. Audryn had tried and given up when she could not bear the pain that came with healing magic--let alone actual injuries. Even Lieutenant Evander, who had brought her here in the first place, realized soon enough what a disappointment she'd been and turned away, busying himself with work.